


There are eleven pieces of proof of how you're both not dead despite it all.

by aactionjohnny



Category: Bleach
Genre: F/M, Gore, Implied Non-Con, Troubled Relationship, Vignette, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-12-06 20:21:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11608236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aactionjohnny/pseuds/aactionjohnny
Summary: A KiraHina commission for my friend Rinusagitora. <3





	There are eleven pieces of proof of how you're both not dead despite it all.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rinusagitora](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rinusagitora/gifts).



**One.**

You meet him and he's soft, all over, like a doll. Porcelain, but his hair is real. Boys like him aren't made from horses. You slept with one when you were small, smaller still. In the blue-and-white he's an angel to your devilish red. You don't love him, even though your stupid young heart knows you can.

He yells, _I don't want to die,_ and you think _of course, angel, boys like you live long._ Like horses. You think you'll keep him alive forever, maybe. You'll resuscitate him with your hands and lips, and the thought makes your legs meet for the first time. You understand what's between them and it blossoms. You blossom. Like lilies. Like marigolds.

Someone picks you. One by one, _he loves me, he loves me not, he loves me._ He loves me. _He loves me,_ and you tell yourself enough you start to believe it.

 

**Two.**

You meet her and she takes five years off your life. You're slowly dying, already, only a certain number of irregular heartbeats (the family doctor said it _murmurs,_ like you do, when you talk), but she speeds it up so fast. You'll take it in stride, your quicker death. Her voice rings like a funeral bell.

She's so brave and you're _such a fucking pussy,_ when they hit you you smile a little. You wipe the blood off with your sleeve and she dabs at it with water. _Kira-kun,_ and her concern makes you hard. You wear yourself out alone and think of her, and then you hate yourself even more. At least it took up a few more heartbeats.

Someone takes you under their wing because yours are missing too many feathers. You turn your head (the _sound_ your neck makes, you'll get used to it) to look back and she's tucked beneath the same billowing coat. _Kira-kun,_ and he forces your gaze forward toward your slow death.

 

**Three.**

The first time you die it's the same as every other fucking time he's driven something sharp and unyielding into your little fucking body and you bleed the same. From your heart. He leaves you for someone else to find, like a spill he won't clean up. Like litter. He was always so neat.

They hook you up to a machine that forces you to breathe, damn thing. Your young angel, still sweet even as he's soured by that awful man, that grinning monster, comes to visit you. He's under guard, you think. They've given you almost enough drugs to kill you. Cruel, they are.

_Please take it off,_ and he shakes his head. The mask forces air into your lungs. _Please, there's nothing left to breathe for_. He shakes his head (the _sound_ his neck makes, you'll never get used to it) and his hands crawl you, to your cheeks. Bruised and reddened from the mask, you know he still thinks you're pretty. Like he said, that one time, and then he kept quiet.

_You could have saved me. You fucking pussy._

 

**Four.**

They let you see her because there's some pity mixed with the vitriol. There's some knowing glances mixed with the pity. _Hinamori-chan_. They way you say it, they know. You're allowed in, to sit on a wooden chair that digs wounds into your bony fucking ass, with how long you sit there. She begs you to kill her and you've already done it, so you say no.

He promised you she'd not get hurt. Promised you she wouldn't be sweaty and covered in her own piss ( _need to talk to Unohana about her staff, lazy motherfuckers_ ) with blood caked around her middle. Sweet little waist, how one time you held it because you asked her to dance. _As a joke! As friends!_ But you swept her to and fro hoping you wouldn't have to use your words. Look where that got you.

They drag you away because you have to testify about what a piece of shit you are. She opens her eyes and begs one last time. _Not without me,_ you tell her.

 

**Five.**

The second time you die your brother kills you. He didn't _mean_ it, he's _sorry,_ he'll stay at your bedside endless hours but he did not _mean_ to. Lot of good that does, his apologies. Kira visits you too, and they argue _. I don't understand why you want me to feel bad for you_. You hear a mumbled “captain” too long after the statement. Some hands grab yours and you try to guess. They're too clammy to be your brother's, always so frigid. There come soft kisses on your knuckles and it's the first time he's kissed you. You remember you have legs.

They let you walk with some ancient old device to hold onto after a few weeks. _Where's Kira-kun?_ And they don't answer.

They move you on to solid foods and you ask, _where's Kira-kun?_ And they look down the hall. You run and tear your tubes out. _He's tried to die,_ is how they explain it, because it sounds better than _he tried to kill himself_. His skinny arms are wrapped up and his skin is paler than when you met him, that angel, now twice-dead.

And it's all your fault like spills on the floor and dishes in the sink.

 

**Six.**

The cut in your arm was recompense. No one bothered keeping an eye on you, so you drove Wabisuke through your skin. He hates you now.

You hear a girlish scream. Like when she saw a body pinned to the outer wall. Are you anything like him? She screams the same when she sees the men (the _boys_ , you have been reduced to a child, stunted) she loves dead. You feel a soft rain of girl-tears on your skin.

You get a little better, and they adjust the head of your bed so you can see her. You hold hands awake now, and you talk like you ought to have before she stole your heartbeats. Like you should have rolled over in the grass and said _I love you and I've always loved you,_ like it could have prevented all that. Her kiss is a tonic. Your cuts heal, and her scar forms. She lets you see it.

 

**Seven.**

He loves you and it's nothing like getting stabbed. _Imagine that,_ he's sweet and soft, hard in all the right places. You climb his hospital bed and lock the door with your magic, that he likes. He's good at it too, even though she says _no, you're the best, gods, you're so good_ \--

He makes sure you come first. _Where'd he learn all that?_ You shudder to think of where. He's been shamed into being good at it, into loving how your nails are like claws in his skin. You wilt against one another and your vital signs are bad. Unohana doesn't rush in with needles and salves. She stands outside the door like a guard.

Under his sheets you both cry. Together, when before it was always separate, far away, under the same damn moon, like in songs.

 

**Eight.**

Nothing happens for months. It itches, because things ought to go wrong, so you sabotage all on your own. You drink until you're an asshole, she smokes until you can't stand the smell of her. You sleep on the couch and she comes climbing onto you in the middle of the night and you can't even be mad. You wrap a scarred and skinny arm around her and she hums happy, gravelly though her voice does grow.

It's too late to scold her. You lost your right a long time ago.

 

**Nine.**

The first time he dies you feel it in your chest, like it's happening again. But you turn around and no one is holding a sword right through you. You're far away, crying under the same moon, and you have a job to do. You can't rush to his side, and from the ringing in your ears you know it'd be no use.

You have five minutes to visit him. There are tubes through his throat and machines pumping his blood. It spills and that nasty painted man scowls at it, like your dearest can do a damn thing to stop himself from bleeding. You hold his hand (he's got _one_ , these days) and he can't squeeze your fingers.

He's brain-dead and he can't ask you to pull the tubes out.

You see him again and his body is missing. You press your cheek to his horrid chest and you don't hear a thing.

 

**Ten.**

The only words you can find are for her. Thank the gods your heart doesn't beat, thank them that her lungs are black as your arm. You're both slowly dying, but at least it's together. No one wants to visit you anymore. Her hair gets long and her scar fades, but she still lets you see it. She trims your hair because it still grows, somehow. She dresses you up like a living boy.

You live together in her place, where you put all of your stuff. Your own room is haunted, and no one else moves in because of the ghosts-turned-ghostlier.

You both wake up sweating and crying, still. One of your ghosts is tied up, deep beneath the surface, because they let him live. They let him live, but you both slowly die. You atrophy in that bed together where you fuck. _Making love_ is for the living. Two corpses can only scratch their bones together.

Some days she holds your bad hand, like she used to, like it's still made of skin and you.

 

**Eleven.**

Everyone is having babies. _Should we have a baby? Can you still breathe life into me with one lung?_ And he parries. _Can you even nurse with a scar between your breasts?_

You are cruel to one another for being half-people. Together you aren't even whole, because so many parts are missing. You don't even search for them anymore, though your knees ache from crawling around on the ground looking. You bend to check beneath every piece of furniture. Even him.

But some nights, when you've just cut his hair, he looks like an angel. He looks like is eyes are still wide and new. He looks at you like you're brand new, too. You meet him for the first time, and you're very much alive. Your heart beats enough for the both of you.

 


End file.
